The Poetical Works of Alfred Tennyson

Then in the towers I placed great bells And thro' the topmost Oriels' color'd

[sound;

that swung, Moved of themselves, with silver And with choice paintings of wise men I hung

The royal dais round.

For there was Milton like a seraph strong, [mild; Beside him Shakespeare bland and And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song,

And somewhat grimly smiled.

And there the Ionian father of the rest; A million wrinkles carved his skin; A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast,

From cheek and throat and chin.

Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set
Many an arch high up did lift,
And angels rising and descending met
With interchange of gift.

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd
With cycles of the human tale
Of this wide world, the times of every
land

So wrought, they will not fail.

The people here, a beast of burden slow, Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and stings;

Here play'd a tiger, rolling to and fro The heads and crowns of kings;

Here rose an athlete, strong to break or bind

All force in bonds that might endure,

And here once more like some sick man declin'd,

And trusted any cure.

flame

But over these she trod: and those To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands

great bells

Began to chime.

throne:

She took her

She sat betwixt the shining Oriels,

To sing her songs alone.

and cried,

"O all things fair to sate my various eyes! [well!

O shapes and hues that please me O silent faces of the Great and Wise, My Gods, with whom I dwell!

"O God-like isolation which art mine, I can but count thee perfect gain, What time I watch the darkening droves of swine

That range on yonder plain.

“In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin,

They graze and wallow, breed and sleep;

And oft some brainless devil enters in, And drives them to the deep."

Then of the moral instinct would she prate,

And of the rising from the dead, As hers by right of full-accomplish'd Fate;

And at the last she said:

When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight,

The airy hand confusion wrought, Wrote "Mene, mene,' " and divided quite

The kingdom of her thought.

Deep dread and loathing of her solitude Fell on her, from which mood was born [mood Scorn of herself; again, from out that Laughter at her self-scorn.

"What! is not this my place of strength," she said,

"My spacious mansion built for me,. Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid

Since my first memory?"

But in dark corners of her palace stood
Uncertain shapes; and unawares
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears
of blood,

And horrible nightmares,

"I take possession of man's mind and And hollow shades enclosing hearts

Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd.

[hall, "No voice," she shriek'd in that lone "No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world:

One deep, deep silence all!"

She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod,

Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, Lay there exiled from eternal God, Lost to her place and name ;'

And death and life she hated equally, And nothing saw, for her despair, But dreadful time, dreadful eternity,

No comfort anywhere ;

Remaining utterly confused with fears, And ever worse with growing time, And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, And all alone in crime:

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round

With blackness as a solid wall, Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound

Of human footsteps fall.

As in strange lands a traveller walking slow,

In doubt and great perplexity, A little before moon-rise hears the low Moan of an unknown sea;

And knows not if it be thunder or a sound [cry Of rocks thrown down, or one deep Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, "I have found

A new land, but I die."

She howl'd aloud, "I am on fire within.

There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin,

And save me lest I die?"

So when four years were wholly finished, She threw her royal robes away, "Make me a cottage in the vale," she said,

"Where I may mourn and pray.

Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that dotes on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is,

I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love, The lion on your old stone gates And my disdain is my reply. Is not more cold to you than I. Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

You put strange memories in my head. [blown Not thrice your branching limes have Since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies:

A great enchantress you may be ; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see. Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind,

She spake some certain truths of you.

There's not a flower on all the hills; the frost is on the pane :

I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again:

I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high:

I long to see a flower so before the day I die.

The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree,

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,

And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave, But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine,
In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine,
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still.

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light,
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now;
You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go;
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild,
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;
Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;
Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say,
And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away.

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night forevermore,
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door;
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green;
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.

She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor;
Let her take 'em: they are hers: I shall never garden more:
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set
About the parlor-window and the box of mignonette.

Good-night, sweet mother; call me before the day is born,
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year,
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.

CONCLUSION.

I THOUGHT to pass away before, and yet alive I am;
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb.
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year !
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here.

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies,
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise,
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow,
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go.

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun,
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done!
But still I think it can't be long before I find release;
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.

O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair!
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!
O blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head!
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed.

He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin.
Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in;
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be,
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet;
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call;
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear;
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;

With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd,
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed,

And then did something speak to me-I know not what was said;
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,
And up the valley came again the music on the wind.

But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them: it's mine."
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars,
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars.

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